Submission
by Masochism
Summary: Some things cannot mend, and other things will never mend the way you want them to. The flames ignite once more and evil lurks in the darkness waiting to strike, waiting for the move that will set in to motion a devastating series of events. Bruce Wayne returns to this evil and finds Nora hiding in it, a woman with no will to live or die.


I've scanned my thoughts thouroughly and have now decided that rationality in its purest form is no longer present in my current state of awareness. Beaten - torn - into a depression no soul should ever undergo, my shattered frame of a woman lay hidden beneath an array of filth and disgust, typical aspects of daily life in a city well accostumed to such horrors. Unable to move, speak, or breathe my body drew in to submission as if obeying orders to an unknown yet domineering figure. Paleness shadowed my face and the control I had over both mind and matter spiraled farther from any grasp of reality I previously had; a tormenting light widened in to my view as my will to live struggled to survive in this palace of hellish proportions.

Odors fell to my nostrils, odors familiar to those accostumed to street life. Playing in to my vision were the particles of waste and residue forming closely around the frame of my body, and for a brief moment I reveled in the aroma captivating my senses; however, my disgust in the matter before me returned to my stomach once more as my stomach churned at the sights before my eyes. I wanted - no - needed to scream out in agony. Knowing well nothing existed in this hell I had created my plea would only serve as a waste of time and energy on my mind and my body, but a small fragment of my broken soul still had time to exist in this terror. A piece of my heart hoped for salvation.

"Forgive me," I whispered, hoping beyond all thoughts a stranger would listen and appease my notions with an answer. With no reply I drowned myself in the stillness of my thoughts once more, knowing well that those thoughts were all I had left - all that was left of my legacy, the only thing I would truly leave behind.

What sort of legacy was their to leave behind? My life was a subtle existence at best with other thoughts and opinions constantly dictating the life I built for myself in this putrid hole of a city. While others broke free of the mold and experiencde life own their own terms I, in a desperate attempt to survive, deathly held on to that mold and grew to accept it as a way of life. Submission, the mold that warped my thoughts, led me here to my demise; for what it's worth, I accepted that reality.

As my breath stiffened I found it difficult to draw in even a short gasp of clean air. Trying with all that was left of my dying soul and my dying body I inhaled through my nose and failed miserably in doing so. All I could sense were the odors of the waste from a nearby chinese restaurant; considering the foulness of the matter around me I concluded that the trash around me had been here for a while – or I had. The weekend just began its start in the city and, at least in this part of town, any waste at all wouldn't rise as an issue untill Monday night. Certainly, any time any person visited this city – day or night – it would serve as more of a death wish than a job requiremnt for any man or woman who had to empty the trash there; however, the weekend (especially Friday and Saturday) were far more dangerous than any other day of the week. Your average wife-beaters and sex offenders had their stay during the week, but at the end of it all the devil would come out to play.

Devil doesn't even begin to describe the evil prowling my part of town. This type of evil deserves no name, only a singular emotion ties itself to every victim of the nameless crimes committed. I call a nightmare; for, it seems as though in this part of town an endless nightmare occurs on a daily basis – and the nightmares only worsen as each day progresses.

But the Devil has a name...

Struggling to soothe myself with words I whispered out "Rodrigo" as a few bags of trash piled over my stomach. Drawing in to the pain I let out a soft cry while a box of rice opened on to my face. Disgusted by the smell and taste of the food somewhat crawling in to my mouth I used whatever energy I had left to spit out the rice and push the bag away from me. Repulsed by everything around me I attempted to lift my hand towards a side of the dumpster, hoping to somehow escape my thoughts of ending it all here in filth. It would at least comfort me more to die beside it, rather than in it.

"Rodrigo," I whispered once more, my hand creeping on to the edge of my salvation. "Is this all I am to you?" The thought was small but the effect it had on my mind helped me understand that in Rodrigo's eyes – the eyes of the Mafia – I was trash. I was expendable and, more or less, a waste of time. I was good for a fuck – but nothing more.

"I suppose I deserve this," I began, musing slightly. As my eyes drifted from the world my frail voice, between painful tears spoke softly of how I "knew what I was getting in to from day one." I knew all my endeavors would ultimatley lead me here.

Biting a shred of skin dressing my lower lip I slowly sighed in to a waterfall of emotions I'd known all to well. My tears were a reflection of my life and the person I had allowed myself to become. Every decision made, every path I chose to walk on led me to this moment in time - led me to my destiny.

I, Nora Johnson, was destined to die.


End file.
